Burning Sands
by EmptyLighter
Summary: Sands tries to come to grips with his new life after the first in a prolonged series of bad days. His boss, Simmons, isn't what he seems. The CIA is rife with lies and subplots. To top it off, Sands can't remember what an alpaca looks like. 4 chapters...
1. Taxis and Telephones

He no longer cared about getting a tan; the skin of his back had faded to a soft, vulnerable color that seemed silkier, somehow, than a sunstroked bronze. The golden cast of his youth, days spent shirtless in the street, playing cops and robbers with broomhandles, was long gone now. Even his hands felt soft to him. The calluses from handling his gun felt stuck-on, like something about to peel off and fall away, leaving his flesh soft as a woman's. He was fading. He hated himself.

Most of his life was a set of rituals based on the emotionless twitching of the clock. He could count the hours clearly now, each chime of his dark day ending with a soft "ping" in his head.

Nine steps between the couch and the television he kept more by reason of vanity than actual need. One step—and both arms outstretched, fingers barely releasing from the edge, like an unsure swimmer—between the kitchen countertops, from sink to stove. Never mind that he did little cooking these days. It was microwave all the way. He considered getting a housekeeper; considered it all of ten minutes, anyway. Shouldn't have even wasted ten minutes on such a thought. He was self-sufficient, dammit.

He was consistently his own best listener, and he remembered there was a time when he rarely swore, but he did now. Yes, ever since the first in a very prolonged series of bad days. He spent an entire morning making up new strings of bad words. Then he poured himself a glass of scotch, spilled it on the counter, and had occasion to really get some use out of his new words. He ran his elbow into the wall searching for the paper towels. Sometimes it felt like space yawned around him, and in a heartbeat it closed tight as an iron maiden, reaching out to trip and bite him.

He spent a whole month being dizzy. The couch became his only steadfast companion. When the size of the room was just too random for him to handle, he curled on it like an Irish setter and waited for space to settle down.

Sands had told them to drop him off at his front door and locked it behind himself with a hand that trembled very slightly. The hum of the company car got into his head like a wasp and he was glad to shut it out. He could imagine where the couch was, the edge of the kitchen wall, the teak coffee table and the bookshelf, but he couldn't make himself believe it. Dimensions were lost. Some sadistic painter had flattened his townhouse with ugly Fauvist brushstrokes and he stood with both hands behind him, palms flat against his front door, pulse showing in his throat as he told himself to calm down, dammit, CALM DOWN, this is your HOUSE, you live here—and not being able to understand his own voice.

The boys had arrived with their steady voices and cool hands on his arms, leading him to the car with the power of professional training rather than physical force. He had taken the same classes. His hand crawled along the roof of the car and he took particular pride in not banging his head against it as he got in. Their voices were deep, distant. The rushing in his ears, like being underwater, was very distracting. It drowned the burning in his legs. He had a sneaking suspicion the wounds there were worse than he'd thought at first. His arm simply ached, like an abscessed tooth. He could deal with that. It throbbed up his neck and was trying to evolve into a migraine, but he could deal. In fact, he was feeling pretty all right until he whacked his elbow with the car door as he slammed it shut. Sands had the overwhelming and sudden urge to just slam his face into the window. Someone slid coolly into the seat beside him.

"Seatbelt," he said atonally.

Sands sat, stoic, listening to the ocean in the bottom of his skull.

"Suit yourself," the agent said, buckling himself in.

He tried not to, but he fell asleep in the car. The air conditioning smelled canned, like air on a plane. It was cooler than outside, though, and that's what mattered. Sleep did not overtake him so much as brain him with a cinderblock and drag him into its kingdom.

He slept on the plane and someone fucked around with his bullet wounds until he yelled. Soothing bullshit fell against his ears. More effective was the local anesthetic they finally thought to apply to his flesh. He struggled for a while because he was mightily tired of being blind, on his back and at the mercy of unseen assailants with crawling fingers and prickly instruments.

"Really, if you hold still this would be much—"

"You know, this isn't a very comforting situation all around, okay? So you fucking hurry up or just deal with it."

"I understand you've been through a great deal, Agent, but this would all go faster if you—"

"Then how about you fucking get it finished instead of squeezing my arm between sea urchins or whatever the fuck you think you're doing over there?"

"Arthur, can you give me a hand over here?"

"Yes, please, Arthur, give him a hand! His own seem to be rather incompetent!"

Again with the needle, and he soon floated in a tingly-numb splendor. He had plenty left to say, but his tongue was feeling lazy. Hold that thought, he told himself.

"Sir? Sir, are you awake?" Her voice was delicate, non-regional. He came to gummy awareness. Darkness.

"Stewardess?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Are you particularly attractive?"

She paused only a moment. It was part of the job description, wasn't it? She'd hoped that a government officer, at least, would be—

Just leave it, she told herself. They're all the same. You should have figured that out by now.

"Can I get you a drink, sir?"

"I'm trying to decide whether it would be worth it to play one last round of grab-ass."

"That's doubtful, sir. How does white wine sound?"

It's taxis and telephones from here on out. He ran the tips of his fingers over the glossy surface of his coffee-table sized copy of u American Motorcycles Past and Present /u and restrained an urge to throw it through the now equally useless (though exponentially more expensive) flatscreen television. It was a gift, he remembered, though he couldn't actually remember who had given it to him.

He did, however, have some fun throwing his work-issue laptop off his balcony and listening to it crunch in the parking lot. He had even more fun whining to Simmons that his laptop fell down and he needed a new one.

He knew sign language, but who learns Braille if they don't need to?

"Guinness. Yes, that's fine."

"You want to see a menu?"

"Yeah. I sure do. But not tonight. What color shirt am I wearing?"

A confused pause. Does he mean something by that? "I—it's kind of blue."

"What i kind /i of blue? Dark blue or greyish?"

"Dark?" Is this a trick question?

"Good. That's fine." He sips his Guinness. When he gets home he'll poke holes in the tag. The red shirts have no tags at all. He cuts them flush.

Sands sits in front of the tv, listening to the news. That and the music channels pull no punches. They don't even pretend to be visually interesting, so he tolerates them. He can identify the assholes on the reality shows by their voices now. In his mind he can see the little ribbons under their confessing faces: "Karen. Stockbroker, 24." "Timothy. Roadkill scraper, 29." "Greg. Pig whisperer, 36."

He shuffles a deck of cards to give his hands something to do. After a few hours he lays out a game of solitaire. He stares at it with his hands. They rest like butterflies on the cards, lightly tapping, tickling down the edges of the cards, moving nothing. He leaves it for a week before packing it back into the deck.

He doesn't remember what order his CDs and old vinyls are in, so he has to listen to each one and then put them in alphabetical order, with little paper tags taped to his favorites, so he can find Neil Diamond even if he loses count between ABBA and ZZ Top.

When did he buy all this Jefferson Airplane? He doesn't even like this shit any more.

Santana goes off the same balcony as his laptop. He wouldn't shed a tear if he never heard a Latin beat again, ha ha.

He doesn't miss his tears, and he cheers himself with the thought that he'll never have to fish an eyelash out of his cornea again. That's cause for a celebration. Out comes the scotch.

The first day he dared go barefoot wreaked more havoc on his blood pressure than his first real gunfight. He learned his lesson in that first week after jamming his toes under more doors than he felt he really deserved.

"Are you sure you can live without me?" he asked pointedly, repressing the anger that made him feel a little dizzy. His voice sounded cool, careless. Good.

"It's not really a question of that," Simmons replied, and Sands wished desperately he could read his face.

"Oh? And what's it a question of? How little it'll take to get me out of your hair?" He was aware he sounded like a child, but he didn't care. Shit, after all he'd done--!

"If there's something there you aren't happy with, please, Sands, let us know. We don't want anything less than for you to be well-situated."

"Shit."

"Is there some particular item you're taking offense with?"

"Yeah, actually. Let me check this. Oh yes... right here... the part where I lose my JOB."

"Can you hear yourself? Didn't you listen to this at all? My God, Sands, it's nothing like that. This isn't a buy-off. It's—"

"—A forced retirement package—"

"Forced? For Pete's sake." Simmons sat down across from him, his arms making a thud on the table, his voice moving close. "Nobody's making you do anything. Nobody ever does. We've let you run free-range for years, Sands. We let you take that particular assignment in whatever direction you wanted, and you came back the reaper of your very own actions. I'm offering you a chance to live like you deserve. You can wallow in your self-pity and pride or you can accept this and do something."

"You're cutting me off."

"Goddammit, are you listening to me? You can work anywhere you want to! You can go to Dry Hump, Manitoba if that yanks your crank. You pick the spot. You know how we're hurting for warm bodies, and you're still one of those, no matter what martyr you're trying to make yourself. God save us, you're still capable. This is just a little cushion for if something falls through. I don't want to see you take a beating."

"I've already had that, thanks."

"Yeah, I noticed. Come on, Sands. Be reasonable here. Look at this objectively for a minute."

He is silent for a minute, appearing to think. "I've got to admit that's a pretty handsome offer, Simmons."

"It is."

"Unfortunately for you, handsome doesn't swing a lot of weight with me any more. I just don't appreciate it like I used to." He stands up, moving back from the table.

"Oh goddammit, Sands—"

"Ciao, John."


	2. Window Blind

He likes to have the window open, particularly as day collapses slowly into the smells and textures of night. First the traffic picks up, car by car, the way ice crackles and begins to break up in a frozen river. Soon it is the evening rush hour. A drop in temperature, and the hot, sizzling smell of afternoon thickens into a smoky exhaust cover that feels like an old wool blanket against his face. The traffic is the sound of the ocean with shouts and the occasional honk. In his mind they are like the keening calls of terns. He enjoys the beach.

Wind actually starts to move after the rush hour dribbles away into the steady pulse of night traffic. Night insects begin their rituals and radio shows to one another. He has a cricket outside his window. At least, he's pretty sure it's the same one night after night in the same spot. He heard you can tell the temperature by counting a cricket's chirps, but can't remember how it's done. Something with dividing and subtracting.

After spending four consecutive evenings sitting, motionless, by the window of a dying apartment smelling the dying day, he slowly comes to the knowledge that he might be slipping.

No, he does _things_ in the mornings. He goes to bed when the sounds even out and the show is over. God, am I really thinking that way? He wakes up when the sun makes his bedroom too hot and he comes to consciousness sweating, the sheets tying his ankles together, arms flung across the scattered pillows, probably drooling, usually with his face smashed into the blankets or lying on his own balls or God knows what. He always has the fleeting sensation, before rationality resurfaces, that he'd just got laid. Take that, subconscious. You fuck me over all day long, but I get one punch before you come back to grab me by the throat again.

He does _things_. He always considers trying to make the bed, and every other day or so he starts to shake out the sheets, to find an edge, but the fucking things are rhombuses or octagons or something without rational sides no matter how many corners he counts between his fingers. Never mind. The bed stays in a chaotic shambles of nightmares and sweat and wrinkles permanently pressed by his fists, clutching, as he dreams.

Fifteen steps to the downstairs, hand palm-out at his shoulder but no longer needing to drag against the wall or even to tremble across it as his abused shins and toes cringe from anticipating another day's hard knocks. He can make coffee with only a reasonable amount of fumbling now. The smell soothes him, but the sound of it grumbling and popping in the carafe is better. He stands, head down, against the counter. His toes feel gritty on the kitchen floor.

She had rested her hand on his arm, his heavy, heavy arm, his eyes trembling with real fear and whatever shit they'd pumped into his vein, and her lips were succulent, smiling. There was no need for further conversation. Even now, even as it broke over his blitzed mind, he was transfixed by her; astonished, unbelieving.

You rat, he thought, You're incredible. You're inhuman. A soulless worm-alien from a frozen planet where they eat their own young.

If he'd had another word in him, any last comment on the view, it collapsed back into itself as doom drew near with a tooth-cracking whiny buzz. Shit, he hated that sound, it reminded him of the de—

Worse, worse than the sheet of pain and violet and red that cascaded across his consciousness was the sight of her before they did the other eye. She wasn't smiling now. She was staring at him intently, her eyes glistening, eating him with her gaze. Her lips were parted slightly, and her hand squeezed ever-so-gently on his arm. If he wasn't sadly mistaken, that was her I'm-about-to-get-off-on-this face. Oh yes, hadn't he been holding her leg in an incredibly awkward and heavy position, her lips parted as she thrust against him, his arm trembling from holding up both their weights, when she'd started to make that helplessly feline face?

"What's that face for, hotcakes?" he'd asked her, wondering if his elbow would simply crack and drop them both to the gritty floor, and she'd said—

Oh yes, he had two eyes, didn't he? And again with the drill.

She'd said something as they dragged him up from the table, and he felt the heat pooled in his eyes slithering down his face that felt cold, cold as a corpse's. He threw up and they laughed. He hoped, in some dim corner of his mind that was a little less otherwise engaged, that some of it had splashed on them.

"What's this for?" one of her goons was asking. She sounded bored when she replied.

"Just stick it in his pocket. He'll know when he can think in a straight line again."

A hand prodded at his pocket and then shoved his back.

"There you go, buddy," one of them said from a few feet back, and the words echoed down an impossibly long subway tunnel before bubbling at Sands' ears. They made no sense. What could they mean? Look at it ecumenically, grammatically? Was it Spanish? Sure, he sprechen ze Espanol, but—

His foot struck a step and he tumbled against them. He remembered to fling his hands out before he broke his damn nose. There were nine steps. It was the first flight of steps he ever counted in his life, but it wasn't the last. Not by a long shot.

Then, suddenly, the broiling Mexican sun on his face, on his chest, the smells of the street, and if he could get a breath to go all the way to his lungs he'd be grateful—

"What's this for?" one of the CIA goons had asked when they emptied his pockets for him oh-so-helpfully.

"Ask him," another anonymous voice said, and the key was pushed into his cold palm. Sands burst into giggles. Oh yes, it's _perfect_, isn't it? Isn't this 24-karat justice? The bitch gave his key back. His giggles became hysterical.

When he woke up a short time later he reflected moodily on how much he was beginning to dislike needles. Christ, they'd jabbed his arm a good one.

"I was just _kidding_," he called into space.

"Thank god for that," a male voice replied sarcastically.

Oh good, the reality show with the pig whisperer. He let it stay on while he fried an onion and kielbasa together, and figured it was ready when it smelled like food. He ate out of the pan. He left the pan in the sink. He considered it a job well done.

The nightmares still woke him up. This time he spent some time seriously trying to fix the metamorphosing sheets and blankets. He was cranky, muttering into the dark that he only knew by virtue of his own circadian rhythm.

"I don't deserve this," he told his knees. "I'm a good person. I've suffered enough." They were inclined to concur.

"Well, I'm glad we see eye-to-eye," he told them.

"Simmons! Hey there, buddy," he said cheerfully into the phone. You're as blind as I am on the phone, he thought with satisfaction. I could be wearing a tight angora sweater and you'd never know.

Hmm, angora.

"Hello, Sands," Simmons replied. He tried to keep the trepidation out of his voice. "Haven't seen you in a few days. You feeling all right?"

"Oh yes, just peachy. But that's a few dance-steps short of fantastic. I'd feel fantastic, Simmons, if you gave me some good news about travel in my near future."

"I haven't got anything, Sands."

"I think that sentence was cut short, Simmons. You're breaking up. Can you repeat that?"

"I said I haven't got anything."

"I keep hearing you say you haven't got anything, but I know that's not right, because I have a feeling you mean that you haven't got anything for _me_."

Simmons closed his eyes briefly. "Sands, I know you're eager to get back on the horse, but the fact is I just haven't got a place for you. Be reasonable."

"Yeah, you know, I was just getting a good feel for that horse when suddenly I find myself being a paperweight instead of a federal agent."

"What do you want, Sands?"

"Is this a rhetorical question? I've heard this before and it always turns out to be rhetorical."

"No, Sands, I want to know. What do you want from me? We're both adults here. You turned down the benefits I made up for you, but didn't have an official list of complaints to file. I could have changed it. I can move you around, Sands, if that's what you want. Is it a change of scenery you're after?"

"Maybe it's a change of asshole superiors on the other end of my phone line."

"Just tell me."

Sands had to calm himself. He could tell he was about to get out of hand, and discussions generally soured when that happened.

"Why are you being unresponsive, Sands? Is something wrong? Do you need to talk to someone?"

"Aren't I?"

"A different someone."

"That, Simmons, would be like balm."

"You know what I mean, Sheldon. Someone who can help you."

"Again, Simmons, a fantastic idea. You're pretty crap at that."

"I'll call you back."

"Don't hurt yourself, boss."

"If I send someone over, please open the door."

Simmons was talking to an empty phone line. Sands had hung up on him. Again.

He sat at his window, trying to remember just exactly what an alpaca looked like. Like a horse, kind of, right? But furry. He was settling for something between a shaggy ox and an elk (didn't alpaca have horns? Shit.) when the phone rang again.

"I'll get it!" he yelled into his empty house, and the echo of his voice bouncing off the stairwell frightened him. He decided, actually, not to get it. It shrilled into the rooms like the ricochet of a bullet. He turned from it, put his hands over his ears.

i _The square of the hypotenuse of a right triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the two adjacent sides. Hail Mary full of grace, help me win this stock-car race. For beautiful for spacious skies. For amber waves of pain. For purple mountains' majesty above the fruity plain. Madre de Dios. For beautiful… God… Good bye, Ruby Tuesday, who could hang a name on you? The way you move with every new day, girl I'm— /i _

It stopped, but he still heard it throbbing in his ears. Scotch, come on, where are ya, good buddy? He banged his shin on the coffee table when he got up. He bit his tongue. Keep it under control, cap'n. Running a tight ship, sir. All prisoners present or accounted for. And what sort of accounting was done on their part, sailor? Two were shot in the head, sir, and one fed to Jeffrey, sir, he's a cannibal.

Well done, sailor. Carry on. Aye, sir. His hand closed over the Scotch at last and he cut out the middleman, drinking straight from the bottle.


	3. Checking for Bars

"How did you get him here?"

"Marvel of engineering."

"No, seriously, what did you promise him? I've been trying to get him in for almost a month."

Curtis was reluctant to answer. Simmons saw it immediately, was able to guess.

"You dragged him in."

"Like a swordfish, yes."

"My God, Curtis, I hope this doesn't come back to do some ass-biting." Simmons was concerned that there was still someone out there who cared whether Sands still had free will. Maybe he was just flattering himself. The guy was a waste. He'd crashed and burned two months ago, shortly after the loss of his sight. Never mentally sound to begin with, his bulldog grip on self-sufficiency just made everything worse for himself. But Simmons wasn't in the babysitting business and this wasn't the local police force; this wasn't even the FBI. He could only do so much hand-holding. Either Sands would snap out of it or he'd be cut loose.

Son of a bitch, he didn't want to have to pick him up later if he DID have to let Sands go.

"It'll be fine. Jesus, you've got a splinter in your thumb about him, don't you? There's been worse, Simmons."

"I know it." He didn't need reminding. He'd seen agents come home in much more interesting physical situations. He'd rather have a casualty any day than these shredded remnants of men. Funerals were nice. Orderly. Wrap up the ends with some tape and form letters and sit back to smoke a cigar in memory of the dearly departed. Tout fini.

But those others… that was a headache and a half. He hated dealing with it. And why was it the difficult ones always lived to come back ten times worse?

_Because the good die young, Bobby_, he told himself, _and don't you ever think otherwise. That's why you've got a long while left to suffer._

"This whole thing leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth, that's all," Simmons said slowly. "I don't like the way this is going."

Curtis turned to stare at him full-on. "Am I hearing you questioning your own abilities? Is that the twinge of doubt I hear? Are you falling apart on me, Bob?"

Simmons glared. "Don't start with me, kid." He turned away down the hall and Curtis followed a few steps behind, their well-made and well-bought suits shimmering subtly in the impersonal lighting, smiling to himself. He personally had no worries.

Simmons fully expected to find Sands kicking up hell when he opened the door, but he was pleasantly surprised to see him sitting behind the oak desk, playing with a Rubik's cube.

"Hello, Sands," he said as he entered.

Sands twisted the cube a few more times, then held it up expectantly. "Is it solved?"

Simmons glanced at the many-colored squares like confetti in the man's pale hands. "It's pretty close." It wasn't even.

"You're lying." But there was no accusation in Sands' voice. He set the cube down and leaned back in the chair. It creaked softly. "I solved it once already," he said offhand, "and I was going to do it again."

"I'm no good at those things." Who does he think he's fooling?

"I wanted to apologize," Sands said, turning his face from Simmons, his sunglasses sparking briefly from the late sunlight, "for the way I've been acting lately when we… talked. I've been a little upset."

"That's understandable. You've been through a lot."

"Sure. And you just want to look out for me."

"You're one of us, Sands. I wouldn't leave you behind. You know how we treat our agents when they come into some bad luck." He saw Sands' jaw move slightly and wished he had rephrased that. "This isn't just a job. Hell, you know that. I don't need to tell you what it is. But I think I need to remind you that we have a lot of instruments at our disposal. You're not burned out yet, Sands. You can do a lot yet."

"A lot for you?" his voice was quiet, distant. Simmons was unable to tell what he was really asking.

"A lot for the Agency," he continued smoothly. Shit, this was like walking in a minefield. He watched Sands' hand creep back for the Rubik's cube, as if he was doing it subconsciously. His fingers played lightly over the surface. So far so good, he hoped. "Remember Christian? He came back with half a face and one good arm. He's raising hell in Bangkok with the Night Dawn Brotherhood right now. And when Slade lost his legs he decided to stick around and help in the forensics and crime development labs. He's piecing evidence together that the lab kids haven't been able to fathom—he's got field experience. You could—"

"Join the Wheelchair Cavalry, am I right?"

"Not hardly. You're still able-bodied. You've got a solid brain in there. There's nothing stopping you."

Sands turned back to him and took off his sunglasses, setting them on top of the Rubik's cube he had been rolling over and over on the desktop.

_If he thinks he's still got shock effect, he's very wrong,_ Simmons told himself, but the truth was that those dark, velvety sockets still made his stomach quiver.

"The door is locked," Sands said quietly.

"What door?"

Sands pointed directly at him. It was like Death's accusing, skeletal finger: YOU. NOW. Simmons quashed the thought and turned around to see the office door.

"What are you talking about? The office door?"

"They locked you in," Sands continued in that low, suppressed voice. "That's what they do with psychologists who go talk to serial killers in asylums, you get the inference, Simmons?"

"Oh, Jesus, Sands, don't take it personally, that door's got an automatic latch—"

"Are there bars on my windows?" His voice was sharp, suddenly loud.

Simmons was at once very calm. His mental training came to the front. This was a Situation.

"No."

"Aren't there? I'd be surprised."

"You're not a prisoner, Sands."

"Could have fooled me." He was getting agitated, his hands restless, folding and unfolding his sunglasses many times over.

"Do you want to check it out?" He carefully avoided using the word 'see'. "Come over here." He rose and went to the window. Sands stood up quickly. The chair wobbled but didn't fall. Simmons quietly let out a breath—he'd been sure it would. At once Sands was beside him, his hands groping for the latch. Simmons guided him to it. God, the man's hands were hot. Was he running a fever or something?

Sands shoved up the window and at once his arms were outside, reaching, searching thoroughly in his unrelieved darkness like the tendrils of a night plant. They touched only the air of five stories up. Simmons watched his face; tense, drawn. Then relaxed. Sands stepped back.

"We trust you, Sands," Simmons said to him.

"We'll see about that." He went back for the desk, more slowly now. The window was left open, and warm air, heated from the street that was slowly cooling toward evening, blew across their shoulders.

"Can I get you something to eat?"

"Not right now." He was obviously working on another subject to get agitated about. What now?

"How have things been working out at home?"

"What?"

"How have you been getting food?"

"I manage."

"Well, obviously. You're resourceful, and good at surviving. I'm just wondering—we all are—whether there's something we can do to make it a little easier."

A long pause. Simmons waited expectantly. Maybe this was it. Then:

"What color is an iguana?"

He seemed serious. Incredible.

"It's green."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. They're all green."

"All right." He seemed satisfied.

"Sands, frankly I worry about you in that apartment, alone, considering you never come in anymore—"

"And wasabi? That's green too?"

"Yes, it is."

"Good."

"Do you want to take a walk? It's nice out. You could use some sun. You're getting pale."

"And geraniums?"

"Geraniums?"

"Yes, the ones that smell like ass."

Simmons repressed a smile. Sands would hear it in his voice. "I guess they're usually red. Or pink."

"With pointy leaves?"

"I can't really remember."

"I've been thinking Alaska would be nice."

Ah, there it was, then. Simple proximity.

"There's not often a lot of action in Alaska, Sands."

"Maybe I can make some."

It took him a while to figure out Sands was probably joking. Maybe. God, he hoped.

"Would you like me to look into that for you? A change of pace can be good for the soul." He expected another cutting remark, but Sands replied only,

"Sometimes it can."

"That was easy," Curtis commented as Simmons returned to the half-lit room where they took their coffee, ritualized like a nave in a church.

"For you," Simmons replied. He reached for a Styrofoam cup.

"That's what I meant."

Simmons chose to ignore that. The cup squeaked against his teeth when he drank. It seemed too small in his big-fingered grip.

"Did he suspect anything?" Curtis was relaxing, leaning against the countertop. He'd been as tense as Simmons the entire time, by God. Several times he thought they'd have to bail him out.

"Shit. Of course he did. But he's fine now."

"Better not leave him to his own devices for too long. And whose idea was that, leaving a Rubik's cube in there?"

Simmons smiled slightly. In the low fluorescent light it was slightly reptilian. "That was me."

"That's cold, boss."

"Hey, I was just curious. And what did he do? Picked it right up."

Neither of them had to continue the thought aloud, because they were both thinking it: He picks up a toy as readily as he once picked up a gun. He's innocent as a child.

"TOO easy," Curtis said quietly.

Simmons crunched his empty cup in his fist and left the room, letting the door ease closed on its heavy hinges.


	4. A Bump in the Day

"Give you a ride home, sir?"

Normally he would have refused. Normally he would have demanded to see some credentials. Today he was tired, mentally exhausted for the first time in two months. Who knew Simmons had so much busywork that needed to be filled out? He had turned into a goddamned secretary.

That thought didn't arouse nearly as much offense as it should have, and some part of his brain moaned. The rest was buzzing like an open phone line.

"Yeah. That's fine."

The kid, maybe twenty-three at the oldest, walked ahead of him, purposely making noise with his heels on the thin carpet. It was unnecessary. Sands could have found him by the slithery noises his sleeves made against his coat, the creak of his shoes as his feet bent inside them.

But whatever. He was too tired to care. He stepped through the door the kid held open for him, then waited for him to reclaim the lead. And the car, too, was just nice enough to ignore. He sat in the front, purposely neglected his seatbelt.

"Mind if I turn on the radio?" the kid asked. Sands wondered, _Hale or Yarvard_? He couldn't pick out the accent precisely. Arizona, maybe, but they always tried to pick up some local dialect in their Ivy towers. Couldn't catch it here. And god, they were recruiting early. Surely he hadn't been such a young little twat when he joined the fold.

Sands waved a hand dismissively. NPR filled the spaces between the seats, poured slowly from the speakers and rose slowly to the ceiling, pressing him with its smooth, mellow sounds of in-studio jazz bands and sociopolitical commentary.

His wrists hurt lightly, far-away, from touch-typing for hours and hours. He'd asked for a typewriter so he could at least feel the paper and see if he'd spelled it right, but Gloria told him there just wasn't a typewriter to be had so just do the best you can, honey. She asked if he'd talked to the Braille tutor yet. He said yes. She knew he was lying. He turned on his heel and stalked back to his office.

The breeze, five stories up, fluttered his hair as it slid over his shoulders. He kept his back to it so it wouldn't distract him too much. He wanted to sit by the window; wanted it very badly, in fact, and told himself he was turning into a creepy window-sitting old man. He kept his ass planted firmly in his wheely chair and typed. At lunch he scooted around his office seventeen times, counting the back of the desk as he went by.

"Whee," he said sarcastically, and stopped. The taste of Mexico was in his throat, hot and dusty and redolent of copper, saffron, motor oil, exhaust.

He had to put his head down on his desk for some time before it was gone.

Sands breathed deeply, coming back to consciousness, if not light. He had been dozing in the car. Something was off.

"You all right, sir?" the kid said from his left.

"Where are we?" Sands asked him.

The radio fuzzed out for a second and in that space Sheldon Jeffrey Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency was as disoriented as he'd ever been.

"There's an awful lot of traffic on Seed Street," the kid said, exasperation thin in his voice. "I decided to go around instead of through."

"Good idea," Sands replied. The leather armrest under his hand was slick with his sweat, but he wasn't hot. He wondered if he was coming down with something. He rebuked himself for refusing to learn Braille all this time. He rebuked himself for rebuking himself.

The kid made a left, then another, then a right, and Sands knew where he was again.

The apartment lobby smelled different, nicer. _By god,_ he thought, _they finally cleaned the carpets and I can't even see how many shades lighter they are._ He told himself they were periwinkle blue now instead of navy. That satisfied him.

His key wobbled in the lock, not working for a minute; he clamped down on the voice that rose in his head, feminine and sarcastic.

_leave me alone,_ he thought weakly, and his key slithered home and he was enfolded again by the walls he knew so intimately.

Something awoke him and he rose clumsily from his dreams, struggling toward what his instincts had flagged for his attention. Now what? The sheets were two hundred thread-count manacles. Was it a sound or a vibration? He replayed the last few seconds in his mind. A click? When had his apartment—

he fell back asleep.

All right, the bagels were gone, then. Damn. So much for his devious poppy-seed plan, but nothing ventured, yes? Maybe they didn't do random drug tests any more. It's not like he gets a lot of memos these days.

Sands whirled around suddenly, slamming his hand against the countertop, displaying some of the otherworldly grace he had in Mexico. In that one instant his mind was clear and focused, crystalline and sane. He moved like a deadly serpent and under his palm, faster than a bullet's whine, a paper towel met its end.

He stood unmoving for a second, but the tiny, tickling, scuffling noise was gone. He picked up the paper and felt under it hesitantly—if he found crumpled legs and wings, or if his finger slipped across cockroach guts, he would probably yell—but there was nothing. Mixed relief and disappointment. That just meant he'd have to smash the fucker later. He wasn't looking forward to it.

Across the hall, Mrs. Beasley's shitty little Pom started barking. It was ignorable, but only just.

Oh my God, if that roach gets in my coffee, how will I ever know? He stopped dead, his mind whirling. What then? What indeed? All right, filter systems, or a spoon, maybe. The phone was ringing. If he left his coffee on the countertop and the little bastard crawled in for a mid-morning hot tub swim, he wouldn't know until it bumped against his lip as he drank—

he ran for the phone.

"Simmons, my love," he said sarcastically.

"Good morning, Sands."

"Playing truant officer again, Rudy?" He had a cordless phone and suddenly considered going retro. He had a tactile urge to twirl a phone cord around his hand while he talked. How long had it been? Hadn't his mom had one? Yes, a big heavy bastard. Some color—something that had slipped away already.

The Pom across the hall was still barking, then shut up abruptly.

_I've got to learn how she turns that thing off,_ he thought, _and learn to do it from here._

"Sands, if you're coming in today, I have a few things to discuss. Slade's been asking for you."

"Oh, all right. I can't wait to join the Crip Corps."

"Sands—"

"What?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

Sands grinned, a sickly expression, death's smile on his face. He was feeling quite jolly, by God. Only Simmons could do it for him these days. He leaned against the counter and heard something clatter distantly.

"Oh, shit. Hang on a second, Bob, I think I dropped something." He put the phone down without waiting for a reply and crouched down to sweep the floor with his hands. He didn't feel anything in the immediate vicinity except some grit and dirt. It hadn't really sounded like a spoon. So what was it? He felt a little farther and still encountered nothing.

"Well, damn." Maybe it had rolled under the counter, whatever it was? He didn't particularly want to put his hands under there. He decided to get it later.

"Right, I'm back."

"You find everything all right?"

"Got my balls. What else do I need?"

"Right. Great. I'm sending a car around for you, Sands. And I called the Braille tutor."

"Oh, Simmons, you shouldn't have!"

"Consider it an early Christmas present."

"Oh gosh, I just don't know what to get for _you_, Rudy!"

"Get your ass in here and we'll call it square."

"My ass is not square!"

"Goodbye, Sands."

"Bye bye. I hate you." He was speaking to an empty line. He hung up. He put on his jacket, his leather gloves in the pockets, his gun snug against his ribs for little more than habit's sake. He patted it. Good ol' Emma Sue.

"Mr. Sands, a car is here for you." The old intercom was a little scratchy, the voice of Stuart the Doorman familiar as Wednesday.

"Fantastic," Sands remarked, then poked the button and told Stuart he'd be right down. He found his sunglasses and stuffed them in his jacket pocket.

"Gonna wink these baby blues at everyone today," he said to himself and giggled. He stepped out into the hall and locked his door. Somewhere further down he could hear an alarm clock just going off. He smirked. It was the same tone as the please-close-the-goddamn-door alarm at work. God, how annoying would it be to wake up to _that_ sound every morning? There must be only one composer of alarms, he mused, and the guy's partially retarded. He could only come up with seven or eight tones for all the alarm systems in the world.

The car was exactly where it should be, the driver young again, his head giving off the scent of some fruity shampoo.

"Good morning, sir," the kid said.

"You smell like a girl," Sands replied, cranky. The kid was silent.

"Really, I think I'm all right without this after-school program," Sands muttered, refusing to shake the hand of the Braille tutor.

"It's not like you to turn your nose up at free training, Sands," Simmons said with great good humor. The Braille teacher chuckled. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of him."

"You'll need to keep a close eye on this one," Simmons said, and the tutor roared with laughter.

"Oh, Bob. All right, we'll see you at three."

"Of course you will!" Simmons was laughing right along. Sands stood aside, his lip curled slightly. He felt incredibly surly. None of this was very amusing. Simmons clapped him on the shoulder. "You have a good time, Shel."

"Yeah. Thrills." Simmons only laughed and left the room.

"Why's he in such a good mood?" Sands asked, not expecting an answer and not getting one. The tutor, Cox by name, took a seat. Sands restrained his juvenile urges to make fun of _that_ name.

"You ready to get started?"

"Sure. Why not."

They worked for two hours and made great progress.


End file.
